


An Unknown Hand

by Saucery



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Falsely Accused, Forced Orgasm, Forced Relationship, Gritty, M/M, Prison, Prison Sex, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is falsely accused of murder and sent to prison. There, he meets Thorin, the prison boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unknown Hand

**Author's Note:**

> And I knew that death was an arrow  
> let fly from an unknown hand  
> and in the flicker of an eye we die.  
> \- Octavio Paz, _[The Bird](http://bsa-weeklybits.blogspot.com.au/2011/02/bird-octavio-paz_09.html)_.

* * *

 

“I didn’t… I’m not. One of you.” Bilbo squared his shoulders and looked up at Thorin. “I’m innocent.”

“Are you,” said Thorin, and curled his hand around the back of Bilbo’s neck, big and solid and callused. His broad thumb stroked the side of Bilbo’s throat. “How innocent are you?”

“Whatever you’re doing - stop it,” Bilbo hissed, lurching away, or  _trying_  to lurch away, but Thorin’s hand kept him still, kept him trapped, kept him staring up at Thorin’s dark, narrow eyes. Eyes that were considering him as though he were a  _thing_ , an object of potential worth or perhaps just a pretty bauble to be toyed with.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Thorin’s voice was a low purr.

“You’re making it look like - like you want me to be your - ” Bilbo stuttered to a halt.

“Say it,” Thorin commanded him, and what was humiliating was how gentle the command was, as though Thorin had no need to use force. “I’m making it look like I’m claiming you. Like I want you to be my slave.”

When Bilbo didn’t speak, Thorin tipped Bilbo’s head up, digging his thumb in against Bilbo’s throat, a threatening pressure, as if warning Bilbo that he might snap Bilbo’s neck in half.

“ _Say it._ ”

At least the command wasn’t gentle, anymore. Bilbo felt a flicker of pride at that, in-between the short, panicked breaths he could hear himself taking. He closed his eyes. “Please, I’m only a schoolteacher. I never - I never thought I’d end up here. I didn’t do what they all think I did. I didn’t hurt anybody. This place isn’t for me.”

“Nevertheless, it is where you are. Say. It.”

“No.” Bilbo gulped. “I - I won’t.”

Thorin considered him. And then, he just picked Bilbo up, like Bilbo weighed nothing, and threw him onto his pallet. Outside the cell, Bilbo heard the others cheer. “You share my cell,” Thorin said, with something between menace and equanimity. “My cell, my rules.”

”R-r-rape is not a rule,” Bilbo managed, around a quickly-drying throat. The men in the cells opposite theirs were calling out insults, shouts of  _whore_  and  _slut_  and  _good little bitch_.

Thorin turned to glare at them, and just like that, they shut up.

Bilbo marveled at it, and simultaneously felt a sinking despair, because there was no one here strong enough to challenge Thorin. No one that might save Bilbo from him.

“It is, here,” Thorin said, and climbed into the pallet, behind Bilbo, tugging the blanket up to cover them both and rolling so that Bilbo was beneath him. “You live by it, or you die. Especially one such as you.”

“One such as m-me?”

“One who cannot fight, who has no shield other than pride - stupid, useless pride. It’ll get you killed. Especially with a face as soft as yours.”

“My face isn’t  _soft_ ,” Bilbo growled, trying to shove Thorin away - but Thorin was big-shouldered and solid, like a boulder, and wouldn’t budge.

“It is,” Thorin said, and pressed a finger to Bilbo’s lips. “Everything about you is soft - your face, your hair, your mouth.” His words were hoarse, as if with thirst. “You wouldn’t last a day without me.”

“I think I’ll take my chances,” Bilbo said, and tried to slam an elbow up and into Thorin’s chest - but Thorin merely turned them so that Bilbo’s back was to Thorin’s chest, where Bilbo was held, immobile.

“No,” said Thorin, “you will not.” Then, to Bilbo’s shock, he whispered in Bilbo’s ear: “I have drawn the blanket up. They will not know that I do not take you. All you have to do is sound like it.”

“What?” Bilbo whispered back, dumbly, numb with disbelieving hope.

“I won’t take you until you ask for it.”

“I’ll never  _ask_  for it.”

Thorin buried a chuckle in Bilbo’s nape. “After a few weeks of solitude, the company of another will seem far more desirable to you. I will not have you today, no, not in that way. But someday. Someday soon. When you want it.”

Bilbo decided to ignore that blatant untruth. “And - and how will you make them believe that we - ”

“By making you cry out,” said Thorin, and his hand slid to the front of Bilbo’s pants.

Bilbo froze - then kicked, desperately, trying to get free.

“ _Stop_ ,” Thorin hissed. “What does it matter, a bit of pleasure at my hand? Or would you rather go unclaimed, and be taken by those uncouth animals outside?”

Bilbo shuddered, remembering the greedy eyes of the other inmates on him, as the guard had led Bilbo to this cell - the greedy eyes of the guard, himself. Still, that was no reason to -

Thorin’s hand was in there, huge and warm and solid, cupping Bilbo’s cock, and Bilbo cursed, blinking through angry tears to see the jeering faces of the men out there watching him, while he -

Bilbo turned his face aside, into the pillow, muffling his sounds of helpless rage and sorrow, of a sort of painful, horrid arousal that Bilbo had never experienced before, sweeping through him like a wildfire or a fever, drenching him in a sudden sweat. His breathing hitched - a choked sob escaped him -

“Yes,” said Thorin in his ear, working Bilbo with a patient steadiness, rucking Bilbo’s shirt up and rocking his own hips roughly into Bilbo’s lower back. Covered by the thick blanket, they probably looked as though they were rutting, as though Bilbo’s red face was because he  _liked_  it, liked having Thorin inside him, when it was just a perfectly ordinary handjob that was doing it, something that Bilbo couldn’t blame his body for responding to. He’d been a simple schoolteacher, and not particularly desirable, and he hadn’t had a girlfriend or a boyfriend in nigh on two years -

“Please,” Bilbo ground out, meaning  _stop_ , but Thorin, of course, took it in a way that was convenient for him, and sped up, his fist tightening and speeding up, and Bilbo bucked into it, despite himself, crying out as he came in hot, liquid pulses.

Thorin came after, with a grunt, spilling onto Bilbo’s back. His long hair swung forward, his strange braids brushing Bilbo’s shoulder.

They lay there, under the stifling heat of the blanket, panting and stinking of sweat and semen. Thorin urged Bilbo onto his front and licked his back clean, with a focus and a reverence that made Bilbo shiver, that made him curl his toes in disgust at himself, that made him want to flinch away, but flinching wouldn’t stop Thorin, would it? Nothing would. Nothing could. Bilbo clearly couldn’t.

“Make sure to limp when you walk, tomorrow,” Thorin said in a hushed rasp, and then turned mouthed the juncture of Bilbo’s neck, sucking bruises into it. “These should keep interlopers away.”

“Get away from me,” Bilbo said, turning on his side and folding in on himself, like a fist, bringing his knees up to his stomach and wrapping his arms around them, ignoring how Thorin was wrapped around  _him_. “I don’t want to sleep in the same bed as you. I have my own bed.”

“And I have your bed, too, and everything in this cell. I can choose to have you wherever I please. You ought to be pleased that I did not take you as I might have done. I have been merciful, you know. You ought to be grateful.”

“I’ll be grateful when someone stabs you in the back and you die,” Bilbo mutters, uncharacteristically violent, but Thorin does nothing but snort at that.

“And then who will protect you?”

“I don’t need this sort of  _protection_ ,” Bilbo spits. “It’s no protection at all.”

“Isn’t it?” Thorin asks, calm and sated, running a hand from Bilbo’s waist to his hip, and back again. “Go to sleep,” he says, finally. “Tomorrow will be your first day beyond the boundaries of the cell, and it will be trying for you.”

So saying, Thorin fell asleep, just like that, just as though forcing himself on people was something unremarkable, an ordinary part of his day.

Bilbo gritted his teeth and did his best not to notice the sounds of gasps and groans from the neighboring cells, where the inmates had ostensibly been listening in and masturbating, getting off on Thorin taking his hapless new slave.

Bastards. They were all bastards, Thorin included, even if Thorin talked like an aristocrat rather than a petty criminal, and even if Thorin hadn’t done his worst. He was  _planning_  to do his worst, and that was what mattered. He was scum, just like -

Just like the people who’d framed Bilbo as a murderer, when all he’d done was find the girl’s tiny body, the poor thing washed ashore, small and pale as a river-stone. All he’d done was report what he’d found to the police, and then he’d been a suspect, and then, in a whirlwind beyond his comprehension, he’d been charged.

What had happened? Who had made it seem like Bilbo was responsible? Where had the planted evidence come from? It had to have been planted, had to -

He was a  _teacher_ , damn it, he’d never hurt children, but the prosecution had made it sound like he’d become a teacher so that he could harm children, so that he could abuse them, so that -

And because Bilbo hadn’t had anyone, any friends to speak of (apart from Gandalf, and where was Gandalf, now? Roaming the world, no doubt, the utter clod), there hadn’t been much in the way of an alibi, a person or persons Bilbo could turn to and say,  _I was spending time with them!_  Nobody.

Now, Bilbo had nobody, again, except that he was in a jail, a jail where he’d most likely die, because god knew Bilbo had relatively few survival skills. He wouldn’t be here if he did. Sharing a cell with the prison boss, of all people, instead of some doddering old man who’d been an inmate for decades. Why was Bilbo’s luck always so sodding awful?

Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps this was an inconsequential thing, a minor agony in the great turning of the cosmos, and Bilbo was but a miniscule cog caught up in it, a strand of meat caught on the fangs of chance.

He’d live on, one way or another. Perhaps not in a way he liked, but he’d live on, nonetheless. Thorin or no Thorin. ‘Protector’ or no protector. Justice or no justice. Mercy or no mercy.

He’d live.

 

* * *

**TBC.**

**Author's Note:**

> Further updates will be announced on my [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com).


End file.
